


Thoughts of You Consume

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: But not very romantic romance, Denial, Does it count as voyeurism if it's all happening inside your head?, Ed gets cucked by his alter ego: the fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief, M/M, POV Edward Nygma, Regret, Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: The suave other-him leans, seductively, on the chest of drawers across the room.  There’s a smirk on his face as he eyes up theotherelephant in the room.Who’s this?the spectre of the penguin asks, chipper.You’ve been holding out on me, Ed!  I didn’t realize you were actually insane.  Maybe I should’ve left you to rot in Arkham.  Would’ve turned out better for me, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this [tumblr post by endless-nygmobblepot](http://endless-nygmobblepot.tumblr.com/post/157566146467/what-if-ed-hallucinates-oswald-and-darked-at-the) and I coULDN’T RESIST
> 
> Title from the song “War of Hearts” by Ruelle.
> 
> Enjoy ;)  
> ~R
> 
> PS: I went a bit overboard on the adjectives. I enjoyed myself, anyway. :P

The motel room is dark when Edward returns, the night long since fallen over Gotham. The solitary desk lamp glows in the sterile room, throwing shadows like specters against the undecorated walls.

He sets the gun down on the nightstand and collapses on top of the bed’s covers, not bothering to take off his coat or shoes. He closes his eyes.

Specters dance on the insides of his eyelids, too.

_Eddie-boy, you’ve really_ screwed _things up, haven’t you?_ his constant companion opines.

Edward doesn’t open his eyes.

_I seriously doubt your heart will ever again go pitter-patter like the day you first met him. You can still remember it, can’t you? The rush, the excitement? The power he carries so easily on his shoulders? Even crying and begging, he has that way about him--_

_\--oh, sorry,_ had.

Pathetic.

His snivelling, cowardly, face.

_Cowardly? He was willing to die for you. Have you ever met anyone willing to do that?_

He doesn’t love me.

_Well, he definitely doesn’t_ now, _Ed, does he?_ Now, _his corpse will be beginning to bloat. I wonder if the current will bring his body up along the shore or bear it further downstream. Maybe some hapless fisherman will find him -- it, the corpse of the murdered mayor._

_\--Hey, welcome to the party, handsome. You’re looking much better than when we saw you last._

_Now_ Edward opens his eyes.

The suave other-him leans, seductively, on the chest of drawers across the room. There’s a smirk on his face as he eyes up the _other_ elephant in the room.

Said apparition looks better than he has in days, hair perfectly coiffed. He’s wearing that purple tie he rejected the night of the Founders’ Dinner. Edward remembers his pointed questioning that night, and again he wonders how things might have turned out differently if he’d realized just what was in the heart of the penguin in time.

_Who’s this?_ the phantasm asks, chipper. _You’ve been holding out on me, Ed! I didn’t realize you were actually_ insane. _Maybe I should’ve left you to rot in Arkham. Would’ve turned out better for me, right?_

That isn’t fair--

_It absolutely is, you egomaniac._ The spurious penguin turns on him, suddenly rage-filled. He spits the words out like his final monologue on the docks: _I sprung you from Arkham, I fed you, housed you, clothed you. And how did you repay me?_

You _killed_ my girlfriend! Edward protests.

_And what did she ever do for you, Ed? Coddle you? Make you soft?_ You _were the one who told me love is a weakness, Ed. I was only listening to_ your _advice._

I was -- Edward holds his hands up as if to block the illusion’s words from reaching him. I didn’t mean--

_Don’t lie to me, Ed. She was a weakness. That was evident enough after her death._

Not-Oswald pulls back, folding one arm across his chest and resting the other hand over his lips, thoughtfully. _I’ve come to a slightly altered conclusion,_ he says, turning away from Edward so that he’s formed in profile, the desk lamp behind him rendering him a stark silhouette. _Your love is a weakness inasmuch as the one you love is weak. My sainted mother could not have hoped to protect herself against the nefarious intentions of Theo Galavan. And Isabell_ -ah _was no match to my own brand of animus._

He turns back to Edward, pointing at him accusatorily. _Yet loving each other would never have been a weakness, Ed, if you hadn’t turned on me. Because you, like me, were strong. You, like me, belonged to the dark. But you_ did _turn on me, Ed, and now I’m dead._ The phantasm smiles to himself. _Dead, Ed._

_And where are you?_ Not-Oswald spreads his arms open in a grandiose gesture. _Hiding in a motel room, trapped by the tortured imaginings of your own mind._ The notional penguin smiles, pityingly.

_I told you, didn’t I, Ed?_

_(You do love him, Eddie-boy.)_

_This has changed you,--_

_(This is what we want:)_

_\--the cold-blooded murder of someone you love._

_(Him.)_

Stop it, Edward snarls, shutting his eyes and covering his ears with his hands. Both of you!

He focuses on his rapidly beating heart, the sound of the blood rushing through his ears like the roar of waves against the shore. The specters on the insides of his eyes are quiet.

Have they gone? Tentatively, he opens his eyes.

The shade of the recently deceased mayor stands a hair’s-breadth away from the Not-Ed, one palm flat on his chest and the other tracing his jawline. Edward shivers, repulsed and captivated by the sight. His alternative self flashes him a shark-like grin over the ersatz penguin’s shoulder.

_Would you look at him, Eddie? Just_ look _at those eyes. The window to his soul: capricious and so, so hungry._

Stop it, Edward insists.

_It’s all you, Eddie. We are you._

The manifestation of his guilt pats Other-Ed’s cheek lightly before turning on his heel. His expression is bright, eyes glimmering with an excitement that Edward recognizes very well.

_Stop fighting it, Ed,_ the apparition advises. This _is what I saw in you._ This _is that potential I recognized in you, still saw in you right before you shot me. Look at you, Ed, you’re a mess. You’ll never succeed in your ambitions without my help._

Not-Oswald leans back, and Ed’s apocryphal self catches him, wrapping his arms around his midsection and resting his chin on the other’s head. _He knows what he wants,_ the penguin says, coyly glancing up at the other him. _He’s not afraid of it._

As if to give evidence to the words, the phantasmal Ed leans down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the other illusion’s neck. The veritable Edward gasps involuntarily, sliding back on the bed until he hits the headboard.

_You were just trying to run away from the truth of who you are,_ the venomous Not-Oswald insists, voice gone breathy from the Ed’s execrable replacement’s ministrations. _You’re always shying away. Think of all we could’ve done together. Gotham was_ ours.

I -- don’t -- want that, Edward insists.

_I’d say you do,_ the Other Edward insists, sliding his hands across the specter penguin’s chest, fingers catching at the buttons of his suit. His lips return to his neck, sucking vampirically, teeth bared. The chimeral penguin rolls his hips back against Not-Edward, groaning euphorically as he does so. The incarnate Edward clenches his hands into fists, helpless to banish the hallucinations, forced to witness the cleverly devious creations of his own mind.

His opprobrious doppelganger smirks at him as he releases the illusory penguin’s neck. Agreeably, Not-Oswald tilts his head up and toward the Dark Edward, allowing him to whisper in his ear. Not-Ed does so, eyes focused unerringly on Edward, and the corporal Ed feels an angry shiver pass through him.

Then, the two of them seemingly of one mind (ha!), Oswald’s phantom spins in Other Ed’s arms, who lifts him by the hips in what would, in all reality, be a difficult move for Edward to accomplish. Dark Ed knows this, of course; he knows all of the veritable Edward’s fears and insecurities. The spurious Oswald's legs wrap around Not-Ed’s waist and his arms around his shoulders, and with a pleased little smirk Edward recognizes better than the expressions on his own face, plants his lips on the false Ed’s.

The sounds are obscene, Edward shifting uncomfortably as he is subjected to the manifestation of what was, admittedly, a recurring fantasy of his, some two or three years ago. He thought he left it behind long ago. Perhaps it has resurfaced with the stress and tension of the preceding days, culminating in the death of his only friend and him here, alone (and haunted by sepulchral shades, which seek to torment him with the constructs of his own heart).

Ed-the-other steps away from the desk, taking all of Not-Oswald’s weight with him, and begins to approach. Ed-the-original pulls his legs up on the bed to reduce his target area.

Ersatz Ed’s eyes crinkle at the corners, an implied smirk, his lips still pressed to the illusory penguin’s mouth. Real Edward sees movement in his cheek - the penguin’s tongue exploring his mouth. The authentic Edward feels a twinge deep in his gut.

The two of his illusions bypass him, going around to the other side of the queen-sized bed. Edward opens his mouth to protest as the Other One climbs onto the bed, Oswald underneath him.

Edward tries to tell himself to stand up and leave, but he can’t manage to force his numb limbs to move, staring at his mind’s formations in horrified fascination. The spectral Oswald ignores him, releasing Not-Ed’s mouth to trail kisses along his jawline. The chimeral duplicate laughs at the real one, smirk fully realized. The phantasmical mayor lets out a quiet snicker too, but is undeterred from his kisses.

_Oh, you should see his_ face, murmurs the flagitious Ed to the false Oswald, _he looks so confused, poor, pathetic thing._

_Is that pity I hear?_ the beguiling penguin asks, laughingly.

_Pity? You and I are above pity, my calumniatory penguin,_ Other Ed says. _Now what say you we skip ahead to the fun part?_

In the blink of an eye, both are naked.

The real Ed had made a concerted effort not to stare at the naked penguin when he was languishing under his care pre-Arkham. That said, he _did_ change the man; he’s seen it all, and while not technically eidetic, his memory has difficulty letting go of anything that Edward finds remotely of interest.

And the body of Mr Penguin had indeed been something of interest.

The damage to the musculature of his leg; the myriad scars and bruises against his skin; the sparse black hairs on his chest: he can recall all in perfect detail. He would not have confidently claimed the same of the reproductive organ --

_Oh, Eddie, call it a cock, for god’s sake._ Dark Ed taps his temple mockingly. _Contextually, it’s more accurate._

\-- but it seems he can recall with satisfactory detail Oswald’s erection - because it is that, hard and flushed and rising from a nest of curly black hair. Not-Ed’s hand curls eagerly around it, gently stroking up and down the shaft. It must feel good: the spurious Oswald throws his head back, arching up against Other-Ed. Edward licks his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is.

Oh, Ed, the enticing penguin sighs. Real Edward wraps his arms around his legs, feeling his muscles tense impotently. He can’t leave; the show won’t finish until his mind feels it has accomplished what it wants.

Not-Ed leans down and places a kiss on Not-Oswald’s lips. He kisses back, quickly and almost chastely in comparison to earlier. He smiles up at False Ed, then his brow creases and his mouth opens into an “O” of pleasure as the imitation strokes his erection. _Going to actually speed things up?_ he gasps out, voice reedy with pleasure.

_Absolutely,_ Dark Ed says hungrily.

_How do you want me?_ the words tumble from alluring pink lips, pale eyes blinking open to stare up at the false, impostor, _larcenist_ Edward.

_Eddie’s never taken anything up the ass,_ the Other Ed explains, conciliatory, _and I don’t think we’ll be up for anything particularly experimental tonight._

_You could,_ suggests the siren, voice coy.

_I could. But this is the closest he's been with a man; he’s a little intimidated._

The shade hums, the sound salacious in Edward’s mind, breaking off into a gasp of pleasure before resuming: _figures he’d actually be very vanilla. Except for his little murder kink._

_Murder kink!_ Not-Ed says, delighted. _That’s so true! What if I strangled you while we go at it?_

Oswald purses his lips, but he appears thoughtful rather than offended. _I think, so soon after my unenviable and painful demise, that might traumatize rather than arouse him._

_Right you are,_ the heinous double says, always the foremost authority on Eds, _and I think I’d better top. This is all for his benefit, after all._

The-real-Edward wants to protest, and goes so far as to open his mouth to do so. This isn’t for him. It’s just what the revenants in his head want to subject him to. But False Ed cuts him off cruelly, in the most sadistic way possible:

He positions himself against Oswald’s entrance and _thrusts_ himself inside.

Oswald shrieks, back arching off the bed so forcefully that real-Ed imagines he feels the bed rock. _It’s a good thing I’m not real, Ed, or that would have_ hurt. _Or haven’t you heard of lube?_

_You’re_ not _real and I’m impatient._

_You are,_ the specious Oswald purrs. Ed hits him with a particularly hard thrust, and his legs jerk involuntarily. _Fuck, yes, Ed. --No, I don’t curse._

_That’s right, you don’t,_ Edward murmurs, that is to say, Not-Ed mutters into Oswald’s throat, _But maybe you would when I fuck you._

_Maybe,_ Oswald agrees, voice echoing as if from the bottom of a well. _Not that we’ll ever know for sure._

Not-Ed sets into a pounding rhythm, each thrust rocking Oswald where he lies. Oswald’s hands scrabble across the other Ed’s back, a cascade of words and noises escaping his lips like the steady flow of river current -- words of adoration, sighs of pleasure, gasps of painful arousal. He whines when the thrusting Ed catches him at a particular angle, fingernails digging into that Ed’s back.

The real Ed realizes, with a sudden sense of imminent doom, that he is hard, straining at the fabric of his trousers.

_What was the use,_ fake-Ed snarls accusatorily, _of Isabella when we could’ve had_ this? He thrusts one more time and Oswald comes spectacularly, head thrown back and mouth open in rictus of pleasure-pain.

False-Ed follows after him, but True-Ed doesn’t spare a glance for him, too busy staring at Oswald’s slack-jawed expression.

Dark Ed’s head is in the way of his vision, leaning down to place a kiss on Oswald’s lips. Oswald mewls when he tries to pull away, lifting a hand to rest on the nape of Not-Ed’s neck, fingertips teasing the short hairs there.

The kiss goes on, and on, but there are none of the obscene noises, no breathy groans. Just quiet, steady pressure. Edward watches as Oswald’s eyes drift shut and a soft, pleased little sigh escapes his lips.

Other-Ed closes his eyes, too, ignoring Real-Ed, for once not having something pithy to say. His fingers run through Oswald’s hair, petting the fluffy black strands and smiling sweetly as Oswald - false Oswald, spectral Oswald, the incorporeal conception of his own tormented mind - makes a catlike noise of contentment at the sensation.

_I love you,_ in a voice like the susurrus of the wind.

It’s not Oswald’s.

Edward pitches himself off the bed and flees.


End file.
